"run away with you"
order, dear lover
4, 3, 2, 1 & 5.
critique isn't where i grow. but it's somewhere that i learn. and one can't grow everytime they learn, as i learned in the fifteen years i've grown. scars continue to be plastered around my skin, years pass, and i noticed they don't wear off. but i met someone this day, and had my silken frills of my vulnerable red cloth come undone, words as sweet as melted butter on my tongue, and oh, i'm coming undone. he could be the one.
i put my ears near his mouth, just to hear how his breath sounds, while i enquired him that night about how amazing being camouflaged is like. a little pointed nose that goes up and down in sync with his chest, that stands out proud when he's talking loud about his hometown, i noticed.
i place my black coffee on the table, as i look in his eye, and he tells me, "hey, you'll be alright," as he reaches out his hand. and i lent out mine and soon my ringed fingers land wrapped around his, and a sweet (e)motion that pushed me forward to him, noses inches apart.
"i'm a proud writer," i said while we danced, cupping my left hand on the back of his neck. "what do you write about?" he slowly whispered, moving his left arm around my waist, as i nervously said, "i write love stories," i paused to look him in the eye, " i write about the moving wind. the falling leaves. the hollow caves. red fruits, emotions, and people. i write love stories."
"and what are you writing now?" he kissed my hand and continued dancing. i didn't reply, because i wasn't sure of what i was writing. my life, my story, it's always been blurry. "will you help me co-write?" said as i saw that smug smile on his face, and he took deep breath and he said, "wanna run away with me?"